


The Flowers of Troy

by Percevale



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Combeferre is also an amalgamate but mostly Hector, Enjolras is sort of an amalgamate but mostly Aeneas, Grantaire is Cassandra because I came up with this concept in the middle of the night, I can justify these decisions if need be, Iliad AU, M/M, no beta readers we die like men, there's no major character death in the fic but future character death...implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 03:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17093561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percevale/pseuds/Percevale
Summary: Prompt: Iliad AU, but Enjolras and Grantaire can't be Achilles and Patroclus.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Onlythegodsarereal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlythegodsarereal/gifts).



> It's nice to get back to writing fic, I've been working almost exclusively on my original writing projects for more than a year now.
> 
> At some point in the planning of this fic I gave up on cross-referencing everything for historical accuracy, so if you happen to know a lot about Mycenean culture or whatever, please don't murder me for inaccuracies. Troy is built on the plain of the river Scamander, near the ocean. There is a set of main city walls and then a second set of walls which surround the royal citadel-keep. I am fully ready to defend my choices for which characters are in what roles.

“The gods do not forsake their children,” says Grantaire, over the rim of a  _ kylix  _ which takes him both hands to hold. “How, then, has Aphrodite Anaduomenê left her son to the battlefield, and lavished her attention upon the man who brought ruin to Ilios? I will tell you why- it is because she is  _ ashamed  _ of our high-hearted hero, and would rather spend her protection on those of us whose emotions she can toy with, who would pursue passion instead of the hope of-”

“Grantaire,” says Musichetta, to whom he has been speaking, “You should get some rest. It will be nightfall soon, and the fighting will stop once it is too dark to see.” Beside her reclines Joly, who was struck by a Greek spear two weeks before. The wound is nearly closed, but he still claims to feel light-headed when he stands, and he eats little. Grantaire knows that this is just another of Joly’s ghost sicknesses, but he dares not say so- for who would believe him? He takes another drink from the kylix.

Sunset-colored light streams in the small window, making patterns in rose and orange upon the flagstone floor. 

“How have you been taking your wine?” asks Combeferre, appearing suddenly in the doorway. He is still halfway in armor, his bronze greaves blood-splattered and the red dust thick in his brown hair, and there is a long scrape running down his cheek. Grantaire quickly drains what little wine remains in the bowl before Ferre can tell that he has been drinking it unwatered. 

“Where is Bossuet?” asks Joly, sitting up in a panic. 

“He is coming,” mumbles Grantaire, setting down the kylix and eyeing the rest of the jug of wine still sitting on the table. 

Neither Musichetta nor Joly seem to hear him, and Ferre has to settle them before Bossuet himself appears, looking rueful.

“I cut my hand,” he says. 

“We pushed the Greek forces away from the walls for the night,” says Combeferre, sitting down with a wince. “They have been nearly driven back to the loud-roaring sea, and most of the other captains believe that we can force a full retreat within the year.” 

Grantaire feels his whole body shudder beneath the weight of prophecy, and he blinks and opens his eyes to look up at Ferre’s face as grey as dust, with blood dripping down over his bruised eyes- “The year turns towards its closing too quickly, tamer of horses,” he hears himself say from far away. He presses his eyes shut and fumbles for the jug of wine, but the words will not stop coming. “The people think you their shepherd, second only to brave Enjolras, but there are wolves on the plains of Troy, and their teeth are sharp and fit for rending shepherds and sheep both.” He takes a breath, and then another, and then as the worried gazes of everyone else in the room fall upon him he pours the  _ kylix  _ full of uncut wine and drinks deeply to drown out the buzzing in his ears. 

“The wolves,” he mutters, looking back up at Ferre. “With their hands darkened as though dipped in this very wine. No one believes me or the words I say, so I will lie to you now and tell you that of course, of course you will see the year to its end, and the Achaean warriors will fall back and sail across the foam-topped waves by the light of rosy Eos. Of course they will, and there will be great celebration in the city, and enough wine to satisfy even me.” Grantaire smiles and takes another draught. One of these days, he hopes, the wine will cloud his senses permanently, so that the whispering and the visions are silenced, but until then he is only the mad son of the king, who cannot be sent out to fight for fear that he will spend his time swapping stories and bottles with the men of Greece.

“There may not be quite  _ that  _ much wine,” says Bossuet, laughing. Joly has begun trying to rewrap his hand, and is complaining of the dirtiness of the bandage. Grantaire sighs into his wine.

“By the way,” he says. His speech has become slightly slurred at the edges, but still he hears the whispers. “How fared the other captains? Is Enjolras still waiting for the king to change the way he portions out glory, or has he returned to his place on the front? Were the world just, then just men would be justly proportioned their-  _ ah,”  _ he breaks off awkwardly, “Do not mind me. Go and polish your armor and trade your honors and wait for rose-armed Eos to bring a new day of sorrows.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says softly, and then closes his mouth, for Grantaire is staring resolutely at the wall and seems altogether done with talking.


	2. Chapter 2

Troy is a dying city, but among the houses and the towers made grey and weary by nine years’ siege walks golden-haired Enjolras, and the yellow moonlight shines upon him. He climbs the long stair to reach the top of the city wall, and rests his hands upon the stone. The hollow ships of Greece lay lined on the beach some miles away, and he can hear the lonely beating of the waves upon the shore.

Nine years it has been since the people of Troy could freely walk upon the white shore, or see the sea-birds wheeling. No one but the warriors have left the walls in the seasons they have been under siege, and there are battle camps ranged out across the Scamander plain.

“Hail, counsel of the Trojan people,” says a voice- have his senses been dulled by the resounding clamour of battle, that he cannot hear someone coming up behind him? Enjolras wheels around and comes nearly face to face with Grantaire, the youngest son of Priam, who has flowers in his hair and wine on his breath. They have not spoken often, but he has often seen the prince watching the marching troops, from upon the high city wall, and he knows his brothers well.

(People say the prince was sixteen, when he fell asleep drunk in the temple, and when they found him there were snakes coiling on his neck and whispering in his ears. Since then, he has said nothing but doggerel, but the fear of death is in his eyes. The will of the gods is often fickle, but Enjolras thinks that Grantaire most likely did not learn whatever lesson he was supposed to take from the experience.)

Grantaire snaps his fingers in front of Enjolras’ nose and says just a little too loudly, “Why will no one look at me? It’s true that I say naught but words of ruin, and that the whole of Ilios thinks me a liar with a tongue like a dagger- but look at me when you think, and perhaps I will feel not so alone.”

“You are raving drunk,” says Enjolras, wearily.

“Peace, now- heavy is the burden of the wise ones, when no one understands a word they say,” replies Grantaire, and then suddenly stumbles and nearly plummets off the wall. Swiftly, Enjolras moves forward and catches him by the shoulder and the front of the tunic, pulling him back from over the long drop.

With a bleary laugh, Grantaire looks up at the young captain’s sharp-cut, shining face. Enjolras’ lips are pressed together in a thoughtful, worried line, and his golden curls have fallen out of place. His hair is bright even in the light of the early autumn moon, like sunlight through honey.

 _I am drunk,_ thinks Grantaire, _and who could blame me if I-_

And his hand moves up slowly and brushes across the captain’s gleaming hair. Enjolras blinks, but says nothing, and his expression is unreadable.

“Bright-crowned Aphrodite gave you beauty in plenty,” dares Grantaire. “But you have nothing else of her about you, I think.” His finger briefly catches in a curling lock of gold, and then he lowers his hand and leans upon the ramparts with a sigh. When dawn breaks he will regret drinking so heavily, but for now the urge to prophecy in dark-winged words of doom has left him. “There are some born of gods who receive great signs and portents from their heavenly ancestors, but you are not so close to her as all that.”

Enjolras rests on the rampart beside him, and says, “My passion is not of the kind which my mother might bless, for all my devotion is to the city and I will be faithful to my warriors only, until we are freed from the long years’ siege.”

Grantaire says, “So it is Troy you love only,” and he thinks his voice has turned more bitter than he meant it to, because Enjolras turns and looks at him strangely, and the wind from the sea moves between them in the silence. To break the quiet, Grantaire laughs, and then he turns and slumps down to sit with his back against the rampart. “What will you leave behind when you die, high-hearted Enjolras?” he asks at last. “Many men are killed on the plain each moon, and many more will die before either of us do. Do you think the people will remember you when the funeral games are done? Do you think the stones of Troy hold sacred their heroes and their _lovers?”_

He has seen many men quail beneath the fierce flash of Enjolras’ blue eyes, but Grantaire is tipsy and bone-weary and cares little when the golden-haired captain glares down at him. “We all die, bold captain,” he says, bone-tired, “You do not need some wine-sodden prophet to tell you _that._ ”

Enjolras is surprised at the prince’s reaction, and draws back with as apologetic an expression as he can muster. “Yes,” he says at last, “Men such as you and I are mortal, and we will die when we die. But if all of us are doomed, then we still have the right to make of our lives what we will, and I will stand for my people until I die upon the river-plain.” He pauses, lost in thought, and the wind pulls at his golden hair. “Men such as you and I are mortal, but Ilios- the city will be restored, and last long after our ghosts have fled.”

“You speak like Combeferre,” says Grantaire after another pause. “But there is more _lightning_ in you, and something of the dawn.” His head is slumped down nearly onto his knees, and the purple flowers are falling from his wild dark hair.

“You think yourself to speak in prophecy?” asks Enjolras, after some time. He looks out at the plain, where there are still a few campfires burning. The great beached ships are lost in shadow on the shore, and the sea reflects the stars.

“To be sure,” Grantaire replies, “Although I also speak out of mere common sense, on occasion.” He laughs weakly and then sighs. “You hold blood into a wound through your war-beaten hands. Is the blood your own? I cannot say. I dream of you- _no,_ pretend I didn't say that- I dream of Troy burning, and the flame makes a halo upon your hair.”

“Often mad men think themselves to speak the truth,” says Enjolras, and the prophet sighs and rests his head upon his knees, drawn up tightly against the rampart. He is still for a long, long while, and one of the heavy flowers falls out of his hair.

After a moment, Enjolras picks it up, his expression thoughtful. He sees now it is a purple hyacinth, and after a moment’s pause he tucks it back behind Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire, blinking awake, looks up to find Enjolras’ face very close to his own. “Why will no one believe me?” he asks, softly. There is neither mockery nor any sign of Grantaire’s quick-sparking anger in it, only exhaustion.

“Why will you not believe _me?_ ” asks Enjolras, in return. “Here, stand up- I would not want you to fall asleep on the walls with the sea-wind blowing. Combeferre is not usually quick to anger, but if something happened to you…” He trails off, trying to pull Grantaire to his feet. Reluctantly, the other man stands, wincing a little, and Enjolras puts a firmly guiding hand on his elbow and maneuvers him back to the level of the street, and through a side-gate of the central citadel.

 

Grantaire stumbles into his own bed, and for once instead of the burning citadel he dreams of the sun.


	3. Chapter 3

The war drags on into autumn. Grantaire spends his time walking the outer wall of the city. Some days, there are no battles at all- the Greeks stay in their camps, and light the funeral-pyres to burn the bodies of their men. The people of Troy rebuild the broken parts of the outer walls, and treat their wounded, and wait. Grantaire drinks so as to not think about the weight of the despair that has come upon him- the end is soon.

“Can you not find it within yourself to care about _anything?”_ an exasperated Combeferre asks him one evening. Grantaire shrugs.

“Anything is nothing in the face of fire and sword,” he replies easily. He picks up the kylix and drinks. Ferre’s face looks grey and drawn again, splashed with blood that has dried nearly to blackness. “Ferre, bright-armor, horse-breaker Combeferre- would you promise me something?”

Combeferre hesitates. “Why?”

“Ease my mind. If there is ever a day when I tell you not to go out on the war-plain, promise me you’ll stay within the citadel, and not take up arms.”

“I cannot promise that, though I am weary of this war. If Troy needs me, I will fight for her.”

Grantaire takes another drink, exhales, speaks in a rush. “Not even the gods dare go against the Fates, but I have taken my punishment already and thus will take my chances. Here, I tell you this- you _die,_ Ferre, along with all these fine hopes you carry with you for your people. Courfeyrac will die, and sweet Joly, and Bahorel and Bossuet cursed by Tyche. You are not a match for _Aristos Achaeon_ in his blood-rage, and the day of your death is fated.”

“The siege is hard for all of us,” says Combeferre. He puts a plate of herb-dusted bread in front of Grantaire, and an earthenware cup of oil. “Please, eat something. You’ve grown thin with worry.”

There is a rapping on the doorframe, and Courfeyrac appears in full armor, with his shield slung across his back. “The Achaeans struck one of our supply trains this morning,” he says. “We’re pushing out this evening before nightfall, to break their siege around the eastern roads.” A quick flash of a smile shows beneath his helmet and he waves at Grantaire. “Enjolras is leading the attack, and for once Joly is well enough to join us.”

* * *

 

So Grantaire waits and watches from the high walls, and the salt wind that blows in off the sea carries with it the smell of blood. He sees Enjolras on the battlefield below, some days when the fighting is heavy, but he does not speak to the captain again until the winter has come.

They meet, for the third time, on the ramparts. “Hail, _Phoebus_ Enjolras,” says Grantaire, who has brought up a whole jug of wine to keep Combeferre from seeing it. Enjolras shakes his head and picks up the jug.

“Do you learn nothing?” he says. “You nearly fell from the wall the last time we spoke, and I think you were _less_ drunk then.”

Grantaire gives him a dizzy grin and stands, throwing his arms out to either side as though to demonstrate his balance. “I cannot be killed,” he says, “because I am mad, and it is terribly hard to kill a mad man. Or to speak more truthfully, though I know now you cannot believe my heaven-cursed words- I cannot die here on the wall, because I am fated for death on the steps of the temple, _there,_ where too will fall the other sons of Priam when Troy is broken open like an eggshell.” He takes a wobbly step along the edge where the wall drops off into rooftops, and Enjolras springs forward and catches onto his arms.

“Be _careful,”_ he says. “You are not going to die.”

Blinking, Grantaire looks up at him and blushes slightly- or is his face just colored from the cold? The prince turns his head quickly, and after a moment his face splits into a bitter slant of a smile.

“And as I said last time I spoke, hero, we will all die eventually, it matters not when- but some of us are on the path to dying sooner than others. I will die forgotten, soaked with my own red blood, and so will many better men than I.”

He snatches the wine-jug back and drinks, slumping backwards against the raised rampart, and his dark mop of hair obscures his expression.

“It doesn’t hurt to hope,” says Enjolras, more softly. He feels a sudden swelling of emotion in his chest, but of what emotion he does not know. _Perhaps it is pity,_ he thinks.

“Of course it does. Hope hurts more than nearly anything else. Let me live my last days as happily as I can, in my haze of wine, and I will bother you no more.” Grantaire cocks his head and tries to take another drink, but Enjolras steps in close and puts one fair hand on the jug. “Stronger than you look,” mutters Grantaire blearily, and this time his cheeks definitely flush with color as he reaches up and tugs on a lock of Enjolras’ hair.

The captain pauses for a moment and then says, softly, softly- “I am not bothered.” His voice is nearly lost in the sound of the wind along the walls. Frost has begun to gather upon the stone, spreading its crystalline fingers over the rock and mortar and blood that makes the unbreachable wall of Troy. A single lonely gull wheels over the grey sea-waves and cries out, but only once.

“You should come down from here,” says Enjolras more clearly.

“It does not matter.”

“Listen to me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire’s eyes widen a little at the sound of his own name. “If you carry on like this, it matters not whether you are killed- you have already ceased to live. You are caught in your own mind, frozen half to death on a wall and you are so sick with wine that you do not even realize it.”

He grabs the shorter man’s arm and pulls him toward the stairs, and Grantaire murmurs blearily, “I fear I could not burn like you, blessed of the gods, even if you set all the wine in me alight.”

“No one would ask such a thing of you,” says Enjolras, and then fears that he has made it sound like an insult. He glances down, but Grantaire seems not to have noticed. As they reach the bottom of the stairs, there is a horn blown from the other side of the city, and at once Enjolras springs to attention. “Have hope, Grantaire,” he says, and then runs towards the source of the commotion.

Grantaire considers sitting down there in the road, but then he sighs and makes his way back towards the palace.

He falls asleep just before dawn, and again he dreams of hope instead of ruin. When he wakes, he does not remember what it was he dreamed, only that he was not troubled in his sleep.

* * *

 

Grantaire meets Enjolras again when the spring makes the plain of Scamander turn all to wildflowers. There has been no attack for many days, but the people of Troy can see the armies on the shore amassing.

This time, Grantaire does not formally greet golden-haired Enjolras, he simply walks up to stand beside the captain as he looks out towards the blue horizon, deep in thought. “The people are hungry,” he says at last. “Others beside my own accursed self are worrying. What do you say to that?” he asks.

Enjolras startles. His honey-colored hair is pulled up and back from his face, and he is in his full armor with his helmet tucked beneath one arm. “You always move so much more quietly than I expect,” he says, and for a moment Grantaire thinks he sees the beginnings of a stiff smile. (No, marble-faced Enjolras does not smile. Everyone in the city could tell you that. He does not smile, he only burns.)

“Troy will endure,” says the captain, with a certainty that makes Grantaire’s dull heart ache with a sudden burst of sorrow. “Even if our walls should be broken, our people and the gods of our fathers will carry on.”

The horizon is hazy with the rising smoke of campfires. Grantaire looks out upon the floodplain strewn with wildflowers, and sees for a moment the river running thick and red with piled bodies. “Perhaps,” he says, reluctantly, and glances over at Enjolras.

Enjolras’ eyes soften, from something more like fire into something more like sunlight, and he reaches out and delicately brushes the braid that runs along one side of Grantaire’s head. “This is very fine,” he says quietly. “Did you do it yourself?” He freezes when he sees Grantaire gazing at him, awestruck, and presses his lips together and draws away.

“I- yes,” says Grantaire, as soon as he can regain his breath. “I could do yours, if you wanted?”

“Not now,” replies Enjolras, although there is perhaps a note of regret in his voice. “The forces of Troy stand ready, in case of an attack. We do not know if the Greeks will move upon the walls today.”

“The fighting will grow only stronger from now on,” Grantaire murmurs. “The last year of the war breaks with the coming of rose-fingered Eos, and with the ocean corpse-red and heavy with salt. The war has been quiet these past two years, but it will _roar_ soon, and then all of Troy will be dashed to pieces.” His mouth is bitter with prophecy, and the snake-hiss whispers lap at his ears as he rubs his eyes.

“I will not let our people be lost,” says Enjolras, and steps closer. They are very near to each other now, especially when Grantaire turns his head up to look into the captain’s summer-sky eyes. “You say it is the will of the Fates that we should die- then it is of no object to me that I should die. But I will live, before then, fighting that the siege may be broken and our people restored, for I could not stand to do anything less.”

Grantaire says, “No, you would not be the same man if you did anything less.” 

And Enjolras, quite suddenly, places a hand on his side and kisses him. It is swift, and the captain's lips taste of nothing so much as sea-salt and the wind, and Grantaire's knees buckle and he puts a hand on the rampart to steady himself. "Unexpected," he says weakly, in an attempt to keep himself from gaping like a fool, "but certainly welcome."

Enjolras has drawn back a little, and swallows nervously and turns his face toward the sea. Grantaire reaches out and stops just short of putting his hand on the captain's arm. "Ah," Grantaire says, and wants to stab himself for being so clumsy with his words, "Would you mind if I returned the favor?" 

Again, that statue's smile pulls on Enjolras' mouth. He turns back to face Grantaire, who at once knits his fingers into the captain's golden hair and presses their lips together. The kiss is longer, this time. Enjolras has warmer skin than Grantaire expected- he had almost been prepared for his mouth to meet something cold as the stone that surrounds them, but Enjolras' lips are warm, and soft as the inside of a heart.

On the shore, the white gulls wail.

(This is a story that ends always the same.The long evening light flees over the walls. The future moves closer and is always out of reach. And always, always, they stand with fingers intertwined.)


End file.
